Sir Richard Branson
Tearaway
Branson is as Branson does,
All floppy-joe and levi;
Your fuzzy-round-the-chin-and-nose-
And-doesn’t-wear-a-suit guy.
Billionairish, late of Stowe,
Business up and surgin’,
Spawning music, travel though
Likes to keep it Virgin.
Not a friend of British Air,
Says they’re all deception,
Virgin’s being, as it were,
Immaculate Conception.
Ricky, Ricky Debonnair
Keeps the City swooning,
Now the Madcap Mariner,
Now hot-air ballooning.
Round the World in Eighty Days?
That went out with Moses.
He’ll be round and back, he says,
Before the Footsie closes.
To Bankers, in their Saville Row,
A mite uncouth and shifty,
Worried where-the-hell he’ll blow,
Now he’s over fifty.
Long-term rifter of the lute
Embarrassingly blighted,
Since topper, tie and morning suit
Declared a Branson Knighted.
Will he, won’t he still be Rick,
The guy who don’t care tuppence,
Or has another Take-the-Mick
Received his Royal Come-Uppance?